Steaming

Is it just me or has 2010 been brutal?  I haven't talked to a family yet that hasn't had life hand them anything but a steaming pile of doggy doo since January. 

My Grammy has been to doctor after doctor trying to find out if she actually has a tumor in her brain that's causing her to fall all the time or if she's got something else wrong instead.  Meanwhile my 81 year old Grandpa Jess, who had a massive stroke a year ago at Christmas, has developed pneumonia.  Did I mention my Grammy is his primary caregiver?  And just to add insult to injury, my Aunt who helps my Grandfolks out on a daily basis was given scabies by her dog who likes to play with the neighbor's chickens. 

And that's just my genetic family.  My other families haven't gone unscathed...

My bff and her family are going through a traumatic divorce and the unexpected death of a beloved family friend.   

A girlfriend of mine was brutally beaten by a mutual guy friend who turned out to be no one I want to be friends with. 

Worst of all, my Mothers With Cancer family has not gone unscathed.  Sarah from Spruce Hill has suffered a recurrence of her breast cancer.  It's metastasized to her chest wall, hip and lungs.  Now, this morning I find out that Toddler Planet's Susan just got the results of her latest scan.  Not good.  She has some lymph nodes on her scan making like light bulbs... just calling attention to themselves.  It sucks when you have to hope for a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad infection causing problems because the other options are completely unacceptable. 

Superstitious as it is, I've always known these types of things to come in threes.  So now I find myself holding my breath waiting for the other recurrence shoe to drop.  And me with my own scans coming up this month...

I've had a heart-to-heart with God.  I know he has a plan.  I know "that all things work together for good to them that love God".  But I am struggling mightily with his means just now. 

Deep breath.   I've been tossing around symbolic apparel ideas for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in July.  All of this has led me to a decision.  I am now shopping for some pink boot covers.   The kind you wear over your own shoes with your Halloween costume.  They will be my Kick Cancer's Ass Boots!  After all, boots are made for walking!!!!!

It's the least I can do.  Literally.

999

That's how many days I've been cancer free. Nine hundred ninety nine days. I've had 23,976 minutes - healthy minutes - with my family and friends that I wasn't sure I'd ever have.

Tomorrow I mark 1,000 days of bonus life. Can I say how much I love that without jinxing it?

I saw Dr. Villa, my oncologist, today for my 999 day checkup. It was my eleventh 3-month appointment over the last two years, 8 months and 25 days. Actually, I forgot I even had an appointment today until I looked at the calendar this morning. I've been very busy. But I choose to look at my forgetfulness as a very, very good sign.

It means I've been feeling so healthy that there has been no reason for the insidious paranoia that haunts and torments all cancer survivors. It means cancer is not the focus of my life anymore. Is there any better news than that? I wasn't sure I'd ever see this day.

Is this what it means to be a survivor? Not a date on a calendar. Not five years. Not a countdown from date of diagnosis or surgery or end of treatment? Perhaps, it's just a feeling, instead. Survivorship. Surviving in body, mind and spirit. A true return to normal.

I hope so, anyway.

Cross-posted to Mothers with Cancer

Happy Birthday to me!

This is what the modern-day, 43 year old, double mastected, two and one half year cancer thriver looks like!

I passed all my tests with flying colors. My bones scans were very bony. My CT was quite unremarkable. And my wonderful oncologist said I am just going to live forever. Forever. It has a nice ring to it. Well, perhaps not forever. I wouldn't want to outlive my bladder control, after all...

Some of my friends tip-toe around my age or suggest that I might be 39 this year with a conspiratorial wink. "Oh, no you don't!", I think to myself, "I earned this age! There was a time not long ago I didn't think I'd live to see it!" Besides, 39 was when I was diagnosed.

You can keep 39!!!!!

I'll take 43, and 44, and 50, and 60... any day!!!!!

Cross posted to Mothers With Cancer

Put on a happy face

I have to wonder about myself sometimes. Do I even know myself at all?

I had my three month visit with my oncologist today. This time I actually went in with a well-thought (yet hastily-scrawled) out list of concerns to discuss. But first, the important news... all my blood work was perfect! No indications that there is any cancer on the horizon. Amen!

Rarely do I have lists for my doctors. I usually breeze in all sunshine and smiles making the best of even the worst of situations with a few notable exceptions. I was decidedly unsunny when I arrived at the Emergency Room with a ruptured fallopian tube. Once Daddy-O and Ben got there the whole episode became fairly foggy, but I do have a vague recollection of thrashing around on the table in pain, sure I was about to die and praying out loud for God to save me or at least not take me in front of my son. Or when I bawled my eyes out pregnant with Danny at my regular doctor's office because I'd had undiagnosed bronchial asthma for months and was so physically stressed from just. not. breathing. that I couldn't maintain anymore! Otherwise, I might have one off-the-cuff question or two but that's it.

Today's list read something like this:

• Forgetfulness!!! Chemo-brain or old age?
  
• Still painful sternum
• Big bruise on arm since August!
• Wake up still tired. Low energy? Depression?
• Daddy-O says I'm a bitch... asks if meds can be increased... please?????

After regailing her with my many and varied tales of forgetful woe, Dr. Villa came to the shocking conclusion that I am doing too much multi-tasking. Put another way, if I put too many balls in the air one is bound to fall every now and then. Plus, I am getting older.

No worries about he painful sternum. I don't know why I shouldn't worry. She didn't say. I didn't ask. I'm ok with that.

Same thing with the ginormous bruise (which is really a mere shadow of it's former self) that has been on my arm since August. No worries. Eh.

I worried that I might be having a bit of depression (even though I don't feel like I'm depressed) as indicated by my waking tired after a full nights sleep, constant low energy, etc. etc. Those are the same symptoms I had the last time I didn't feel depressed after I had my miscarriage. Turns out I actually was. Huh. Who knew? So I thought I'd ask. But my Dr. V gets the big bucks for a reason. Her first question was if I'd been excercising, which I haven't. See asthma reference above which is triggered by cold. The virus I got in early December flared up the asthma and it's been too cold and/or windy for me to get outside and walk until this week. So no excercise for me. Click! 100 watts glaring at me. That accounts for both symptoms. See. I knew I wasn't depressed.

But apparently, I am a bitch.

I'm finding this harder and harder to deny. Though, in my defense, I do live with three testosterone-ridden humans and suffer with immeasurable provocation. Still, I do sometimes step out of myself in mid-rant and raise an eyebrow at my own hostility. At any rate, she is going to increase the dosage of my Effexor and see if that helps with my break-through hot flashes and these apparent nasty mood swings.

Daddy-O is lucky to have her as an ally.

As well as all that went, I left my appointment feeling less than satisfied.

We normally hug and gush and smile after leisurely minutes of familiar catching up. Today was more formal and doctor / patient like. She looked fairly sober as I left. No hug. No emotional fireworks display for the wonderful bloodwork and continued victory over cancer. I walked out feeling like a burden. *sigh*

Now I can't help but wonder if I am always so positive and upbeat because that is the way I've always been or because I crave approval.

The Journey's the thing

Three years ago yesterday my whole world stopped. For a split second anyway. Before it was thrust into a strange slow-motion, fast-forward kaleidoscope of cancer treatment and regrets for a future with my children that might never be.

Is there and other phrase that has the same effect as "it's cancer"? What powerful, life-changing words those are. Normally I would think news of a close friend or relative's diagnosis would be worse than your own. But after careful consideration, I think it's far, far worse if it is oneself. Particularly, if you happen to be the mother of young children.

When I heard the words for the first time my heart stopped. Confirmation. My worst fear. I cried.

Was I crying for myself? The prospect of death. The stress of all the medical tests. The relief of finally knowing. The fear of an unknown future.

Was I crying for my kids? Losing their mother at such young ages (that was the only end I could see for them). The confusion and pain they would feel because of me. The scars they would always carry. How those scars would change their lives.

Was I crying for my mother? Hearing that one of your children may die (not a certainty in her context for some reason). Bearing powerless witness as the child you created fights for survival. The pain that would cause - the unnecessary burden.

All those thoughts rushed through my head at once, scorching a path as they passed. Quickly in and out. Shock left in their wake. Mental paralysis. Yet my fingers started typing. As the doctor's voice relayed test numbers and statistics through the phone to some walled-off portion of my brain, I tapped off an email to co-workers. "It's cancer." Even in shock I knew it would be less painful to type than to speak those dreaded words.

I don't know how long that call lasted, but there was a tight wall of support behind me as I put the phone in its cradle. I couldn't turn around. I felt marked. Marked for death. An object of pity. Not strong. Weak - in constitution and capability. A failure. I ran away from their concern like a coward .

~~~~~

All through my treatment, I never successfully shook those initial feelings of failure and weakness. I'd failed to remain healthy. I'd failed as a wife; cashing in the vows from our marriage. In sickness and health. Till death do us part. I'd failed as a mother. Would I see my boys grown? Would I leave Danny with a father stretched too thin from providing and filling both parental roles to adequately see to his therapies and education?

Yet I survived.

Chemotherapy made me realize what strength is... and that I have it. It gave me time to work through that onus of weakness and failure. Time to realize that God's plan was perfect - even for my children. Even if it means that they may have to live without me someday. It gave me time to appreciate my husband for the man that he is and not the one I sometimes wish he was. And to be grateful for those in my life that have always been there for me, and even more that stepped out of shadows and into my life. Mostly, it gave me time to acknowledge my life, my loves and my future... in all its incarnations.

I am so pleased to be here three years and one day later. I am proud of the journey I've made. I am grateful that I have been able to walk my boys through a difficult time and prepare them for others in the future. More grateful still that those future tragedies just might not include their mother.

When I look back at that afternoon in December 2005 I see myself consumed with fear. Today I have replaced that fear with power and action. Daddy-O still refuses to mention the "C" word by name, choosing instead to simply reference his worry from time to time, knowing I'll know exactly what he means. As for me, I talk about it often - stripping cancer's power and making it my own.

I am more than a Breast Cancer Survivor - I am a Thriver.

God's Country

We just came home from Yosemite. It's the first time I've ever been there. Man, did God ever work overtime on that place! He certainly out did himself.

Words really can't express how beautiful the park is so I will just give you a glimpse of my photos from Saturday.

How to be happy in spite of it all, part 1

Just after I returned to work after breast cancer treatment, a co-worker paid me an incredible compliment. She told me that I had handled my diagnosis and treatment with (I am paraphrasing here with all the accuracy Chemo-Brain permits) incredible grace and, well, I can't remember what else, but it was good. The general idea was that I had a wonderfully positive attitude that continued to astound those around me.

I pshawed her, of course. Because, there was nothing graceful about my actions nor reactions. Nothing heroic. Nothing brave. At least I didn't think so. I was just doing what I had always done during trying times. What I had watched my mother do before me. And my grandmother before her. I put on a happy face.

Sounds simple doesn't it? Or maybe you're thinking simplistic is more like it. Well, you're probably right. When others began asking me exactly how I stayed so positive in the face of a daunting cancer diagnosis and 90% recurrence risk, right on the heals of my finding out my infant was born blind, well, I couldn't explain it. At least not in terms of usable information. It's just something I'd been raised doing. I didn't know quite how to explain the process.

Then I found The Bounce Back Book, by Karen Salmansohn a few weeks ago. It's a short little self-help book, more along the lines of a pocket manual than a book, but it certainly clarified things for me. Salmansohn has a knack for doing exactly what I could not; break down the process of having and maintaining a positive attitude.

In her book, Salmansohn offers 75 tips for "thriving in the face of adversity, setbacks, and losses." Many of these tips are a bit redundant, merely rewording the same advice to fit a slightly different situation. Sometimes that's what it takes, however, for understanding to register. Hearing something many, many different ways. I don't mean for this to be a book review, yet if I had a friend going through a rough patch and looking for a way to fight negativity, I'd consider sending The Bounce Back Book. We could all learn a bit from it's pages.

For my purposes here, I will tell you what I took away from this book. That is, I will share with you those behaviors (as identified by Salmansohn) that I have practiced over the years and feel contributed to my success in overcoming the more negative crap life has thrown my way.

The Formula
Each of us has a genetic tendency toward optimism or pessimism, according to The Happiness Project in the U.K. This, however, only accounts for about 50% of our personal happiness equation. The rest is all about what you do and the choices you make. Dr. Jonathan Haidt even came up with a fancy, schmancy formula to become happier. And he's a Positive Psychologist, or a positive psychologist (I'm not sure which-but I think it might make a difference) so he ought to know.

H = S + C + V

H = happiness level C = current conditions

S = set point for happiness V = voluntary activities

I happen to think Dr. Haidt is on to something.

Family
About that genetic predisposition towards happiness, or not. I guess I must have it. We're real Nietzsche people in my family, "What does not kill us, makes us stronger." And boy, oh, boy, have we been getting stronger in my lifetime. I've always remembered my Mom laughing off the bad times. She always found the humor in life when I was growing up and still does to this day.

Humor saved the day when I was fourteen years old, sitting in the front row in front of my Father's casket with the rest of my family at his funeral. As you can imagine, it had been a stressful few days after he'd died, no matter how expected his death was. We, as a family, have always turned to humor in times of stress. True to form, when we noticed that the florist's shop had placed an arrangement directly in front of my Mom's chair that was completely bug-eaten, we just couldn't stop the giggles. I'm sure the entire congregation behind us thought we were sobbing uncontrollably, in reality, we were shaking from trying not to laugh out loud.

We're sort of wacked, I know. But that outlook has served us well, over the years. In general, we try to always see the humor in a situation. One of my very first comments after my cancer diagnosis, which came close to Christmas 2005, was that I wouldn't have to worry about what I ate over the holidays because I was starting the Chemo Diet come January!! Woohoo! Holidays, here I come!

My family could have focused on the loss of my dad, instead we chose to break an overwhelming situation down into more manageable pieces. We focused on the insect-riddled flowers to get through the funeral.

Similarly, I chose to see the diet-free holiday season as a silver lining instead of the dark cloud that was a cancer diagnosis. The cloud hadn't blown away and my dad was still gone but my outlook on the world was much more positive for my efforts.

Cross posted at Mothers with Cancer